He walked out of the barn.

His pickup started in the gravel drive, and the headlights swept across the wooden walls as he turned around and headed for the road.

I stayed inside the barn.

The farm was closing in three weeks.

I had thirty-nine million dollars in the bank.

My father was draining his retirement to fix a machine that wasn’t broken.

The next morning, I set my keys on the glass table in Ranata’s sunroom.

The room was bright and spotless, filled with white linen furniture and potted ferns that looked fake but weren’t.